The French Mistress (32 page)

It wasn’t until I’d finished that I realized I’d never spoken of Madame’s death to anyone else before this: not because I’d wished to keep it close, but simply because no one else had asked it of me. In Paris, I’d been too insignificant to anyone other than Madame, and besides, everyone else I’d known who might have been curious had witnessed the death as well.

But now I felt as if an unhappy burden had been lifted from me, as if by telling Madame’s story to her brother, I’d made my final peace with my dear friend and mistress. It was as if I’d been destined to do this last favor for her, almost as if she’d contrived it to be so. Perhaps in some strange way, she had.

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” the king said, his voice heavy. He’d not wept again, but his expression remained inexpressibly sad, and I’d only to recall the more joyful times earlier this summer to understand. “Now I would ask one more question of you, and again I trust that you will answer me in perfect trust. Do you believe Minette was poisoned?”

He wished the truth. In these circumstances, what brother wouldn’t? Sitting together as we were on the settle, the difference in our heights was lessened, our faces nearly even. Beneath the black brows and heavy lids, his dark eyes seemed capable of finding the truth in me even if I didn’t venture to offer it.

Did I believe Madame had been poisoned? In my troubled heart, I did. From the first day I’d spent in her service, I’d seen too much of Monsieur’s loathsome cruelty toward his wife to believe otherwise. Her death might not have come from a deadly potion or herb, as most had suspected and the physicians denied, but there are other ways to poison the soul that are just as fatal to a tender constitution like Madame’s, a thousand small abuses and hateful indignities that would kill over time. No magistrate in France would ever charge Monsieur with the crime of murdering his wife; there must be absolute proof to punish the brother of His Most Christian Majesty. But I believed one day Monsieur would face a higher, more awful judgment, and then he would not escape unscathed.

But was that what her brother now asked?

Montagu had warned me that the king not only believed Madame had been poisoned by her husband, but that he also believed that Louis was protecting his brother. Crimes like those could destroy the new alliances (both the secret one I’d witnessed and the false one that had been the work of Lord Buckingham), and could even lead instead to war between England and France. I’d been charged to keep this from happening, to soothe the English king’s worrisome tempers and incline him back toward France, and to tell him whatever he needed to hear.

Madame had worked hard for the sake of this alliance, and now it was my turn to preserve it. This would be my first challenge as an agent for my country and my king, and if I were the true daughter of France I’d always claimed to be, then it shouldn’t have caused me the slightest qualm or regret. To falter would be to betray my country.

But the English king knew none of this.

“You may speak freely here, mademoiselle,” he said gently, misreading my hesitation. “This is England, not France, and the duc d’Orleans is no longer your master. You’re safe here.”

I still clasped his hand in mine, our fingers loosely twined together. Now he gently laid his other hand over mine, covering it by way of reassuring me.

“Tell me,” he coaxed. “Tell me what you know.”

I looked down at his hand over mine, his long, dark fingers, which were nearly as expressive as his face. He wore no rings to show his station, no bejeweled ornament of state, nor did he need them, such was his confidence.

“Please, mademoiselle,” he said. “For Minette’s sake, and mine.”

“Her Highness had been unwell for many months, sir,” I began, still looking down at his hand over mine instead of his face. “From the time of her confinement last summer with the Princess Anne-Marie, and even before. She was often in discomfort and restless, and often could find no position that would bring her sufficient ease for sleep. Some nights she did not sleep at all, but wandered like an unquiet spirit about the gardens of Saint-Cloud. More and more foods distressed her and made her ill and wretch, and she lost so much flesh that her gowns were all remade smaller, else they would have hung flapping loose about her person. She even had extra pleats and furbelows stitched in place to give her more presence.”

I paused, remembering sadly how thin Madame had become in the last months before Dover. It had been shocking to see her as she was dressed, how the bones of her spine showed like knobs in a row through her too-white skin. When her maids had laced her stays each morning, there’d been nothing spare to draw in, the stitched bones of the stays sitting directly against her ribs.

“What did her physicians say?” the king demanded. “Surely they would not neglect their duty if she were so ill.”

“After a certain point, sir, she refused to consult them,” I said. “She forbid us to send for them.”

“She told me none of this,” he declared. “If she didn’t trust the French physicians, then I could have sent her Englishmen.”

“It wasn’t so much a matter of trusting the physicians, sir, as her not wishing to hear what they told her,” I said. “I believe she knew how ill she was, and feared the worst. If she let no doctors near her, then she could pretend her woes were only another passing complaint that would cure itself.”

“But that is madness!” he exclaimed. “Why would she have done such a thing?”

“I can only guess, sir,” I said, taking great care with my words. “But she did fear that if she showed any weakness before Monsieur, he would have forbidden her to come to Dover. And that—that she could not have borne.”

He shook his head. “My poor Minette,” he said, his voice bleak with despair. “How could I have not known at Dover?”

“She’d not wish to cause you worry, sir, or take your care from the affairs,” I said. “She was so delighted to be here in England and in your company that I don’t believe she felt any pain or suffering while she was here, until the day we left. I’d never seen her more gay, more filled with joy and happiness. That is how she’d wish to be remembered, sir. That, and for the great love she always carried for you.”

He rose abruptly, going to stand before the window with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He stared out at the park, at the gold-tipped oaks and the first visitors beginning to walk on the crossing paths. In the distance I could hear the drums of the changing guard on the Parade, dogs barking and the rumble of a carriage as it drew before the palace. I doubted the king perceived any of this. Instead I guessed his head was filled with visions of his youngest sister, laughing as she danced on the beach with her arms outstretched and her faced turned up to the sky.

I stood (for of course I’d risen when he did, as anyone did in a royal presence) in respectful silence before the settle, determined not to interrupt his reflections. Given the endless demands a king must have on his time and person, I was sure the best gift I could offer at such a time would be silence and whatever peace that came with it.

“Thus you do not believe Her Highness was poisoned?” he finally asked, to the window and not to me.

“I fear she died of many things, sir,” I said gently. “But I do not believe malevolent poison given her on the day of her death was one of them. No, sir, I do not believe that was so.”

“You would then absolve d’Orleans and the Chevalier de Lorraine?”

I addressed his back and broad shoulders. “I do not believe either is guilty of that particular sin, sir.”

He made a low growl of scorn. “You would say that Louis is innocent as well?”

“I would, sir,” I said with full conviction. “He was devoted to Madame, sir, and if you’d but seen his—”

“I’ve seen enough of Louis and his devotion,” he said wearily. “More than enough.”

“Yes, sir,” I said softly, and sighed. I’d done as he’d asked, and I’d done what Louis had asked of me as well for the sake of France. No one could ever say otherwise. I’d told the truth, yes, or at least what I’d told was true. I could only pray that Madame’s immortal soul would understand what I’d done, and forgive me for it, too.

At last the king turned, and came to stand before me. He’d changed there by the window, drawing upon some private strength deep within. His face was now composed, his emotions tidily buried again, and though I knew he’d not been ashamed to weep before me earlier, I doubted he’d do it again, leastways not today.

“I thank you, mademoiselle,” he said, his more usual genial self. In this he was like his cousin: both kings had the most cordial manners. “For your honesty, your loyalty, and your love for my sister.”

“I am honored, sir.” I curtsied in acknowledgment, my black skirts spreading around me on the sanded pale floor.

“I rather think the honor is mine.” For the first time that morning, he smiled. Not with joy, or merriment, or even amicable pleasantness, but with more of the same sorrow that seemed to lace everything he did. As much as I understood—how could I not?—I wished to do whatever was needed to ease that sorrow. I longed to make him happy, to smile with delight and to laugh with joy. That was what I thought when I gazed up into his deep-lined, handsome face, and further, it was what I resolved to do.

No wonder, then, that I smiled as warmly as I dared in return. “Surely Your Majesty’s honor must be the most valued in all of England, sir. How could one such as I merit so great a prize?”

“Because of who you are, mademoiselle.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying me as if for the first time. “I do not know how it’s possible, but I vow you are even more beautiful than I recalled. Might I ask the privilege of calling on you again, mademoiselle?”

I opened my eyes widely with a pretty show of incredulity, for I understood well the game he’d begun.

“But you are the king, sir,” I protested, “and these rooms lie within your palace, in your capital city, within your country. Why should you ask my permission?”

“Because while I am a king, mademoiselle,” he said, his voice low, “I am first a gentleman, just as you are a lady, and deserving of my respect.”

He was standing over me now, with little respectful about how he was looking down at me, and most especially down at the swell of my breasts. My gown was first mourning, yes, but the plain linen kerchief pinned over the front of my bodice was of the sheerest linen, more enticing than modest.

I let my smile fade, letting him dictate what came next. King or commoner, men were much alike in such circumstances. I was certain he wished to kiss me, and certain, too, that he’d act on the impulse. I’d already kissed him once in Dover, and I expected to kiss him again now. One kiss, I decided, and no more, yet still my heart raced with nervous anticipation. He bent lower, and I raised my face toward his, letting my lips part in unspoken invitation.

Yet as he slipped his arm around my waist, he glanced down and frowned. He shook his head and sighed, his gaze still fixed on my black gown.

“Minette warned me away from you in Dover,” he said heavily, “and she was wise to do so. For us now, so close to her death, it would be wrong.”

“Now you are the wise one, sir,” I said, and though I thought my own weeping was done, the mention of Madame’s concern for me was sufficient to send another tear slipping from my eye. Even in death, she would protect me. “What is wrong now may in time turn round to be right. One never knows what fate may bring, sir, or what tomorrow holds for us.”

“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “I will return to you tomorrow, Louise.”

“Please do, sir.” I smiled as he used my given name, and felt that single tear puddle in the dimple on my cheek. “I should like that above all things, and so, I believe, would Her Highness.”

Quickly, before I thought better of it, I leaned up and kissed him on each of his cheeks in turn, the way we French do by way of salute. Surprised, he smiled crookedly, and touched his fingers to the place on his cheek where my lips last had been, fair disarming me with that alone.

“She would,” he said. “She would. And so, I vow, will I.”

 

 

I learned during that first fortnight that the king was a gentleman who kept his word, particularly when it pleased him to keep it. Early each morning he came to call on me, exactly as he’d promised, and some days he came in the afternoons as well. Although Lady Arlington had promised to be present, she never attempted it again after the king had sent her away during the first visit. Nothing was said of this arrangement; it simply happened. As soon as His Majesty arrived, the servants were dismissed and the door was closed and latched for exclusive privacy. I was happy enough to be left alone with the king, and he hardly objected to having my company to himself. Neither Lord nor Lady Arlington asked how we passed the time in their front room, though I suspect they were like the rest of the Court, and envisioned His Majesty and me engaged in every manner of lascivious play. I will grant that they’d excellent reason to expect such was the case. As astonishing as it seemed, the stories I’d heard from Madame of his many conquests were apparently underestimated rather than over-, and even the genteelly reticent Lady Arlington could name a score of former conquests without effort. The king’s infatuation with me at Dover had become widely known, and, royal Courts being what they were, all in Whitehall (and beyond) assumed that I had capitulated as soon as he had pressed his desires, the way it had been with all the others.

The truth, however, was far less titillating, as truth so often is. Behind that latched door, the king and I would sit together on that same settle. I would offer him refreshment after his walk in the park, and whether it was tea, coffee, wine, or ale, I poured and served him myself with an artful grace that he much admired. What man does not like to have a beautiful woman dote and fuss over him in an obliging fashion, letting him imagine how that same eagerness to please him by way of a silver chocolate mill would likewise be the same in the bedchamber? While he sat with his cup or glass, he would tell me of his day, his dogs, and the weather, until before long we would inevitably be once again drawn to speak of Madame. As close as these two royal siblings had been, their lives had been so separated by the cruel vagaries of war and fate that in fact I had spent more time in Madame’s company than had the king. However belatedly, the king now seized the opportunity to learn more of his sister’s life in Paris, a life he’d unfortunately shared only by way of her letters, and he never tired of hearing me recount the most ordinary details concerning Her Highness.